


Pair Bond

by LyricDreamweaver



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Abuse, Assassination Attempt(s), Blood and Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, It gets really domestic, Kid Fic, M/M, Mirror Universe, Slavery, Violence, and kinda fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 05:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13474899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricDreamweaver/pseuds/LyricDreamweaver
Summary: The eggs are laid in the heat of battle, guarded by the Cardassian slave to The Regent, and loved terrible by their Klingon sire.





	Pair Bond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mountainashtree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mountainashtree/gifts).



> I would like to formally blame Mountainashtree for this.
> 
> Alternative title: The Kidfic Literally No One Asked For

Laying the clutch had been hard. He'd hidden the eggs development from everyone, which wasn't terribly hard to do. The Klingons thought his shedding was contagious, that he was just a bit spoiled in his diet. But the moment he'd felt the need to lay, the ship had gone into red alert, a surprise rebel assault on the flagship.  
Laying a clutch of Klingon-hybrid eggs while chained to The Regent's bed on a Klingon flagship under fire was not Garak's ideal conditions. But every jolt of the ship, every phaser firing, made Garak was almost certain they'd die here and now. And that thought kept him awake long enough to lay the first two eggs, sandy-brown shells glistening in the low light.  
He hadn't made a proper nest, not really. But it would do to keep the eggs warm for now.  
The last of the eggs slid from Garak, the Cardassian exhausted, just as the red alert ended. He had just enough energy to draw the eggs - three in all - closer to him, keeping them warm. He was too tired to be concerned with The Regent and the Klingon might not return to his quarters at all.  
So Garak allowed himself to rest.

* * *

"What are these?"  
Garak opened his eyes, one hand covering the eggs, protecting them from The Regent, who looked startled for a moment by the Cardassian slave's boldness. "They're ours."  
"Ours?"  
Garak nodded.  
The Regent looks torn between cruelty and kindness. He reaches over, fingers simply feeling the curve of the sandy brown shells. Garak is unsettled, but allows this small moment between The Regent and his unhatched young.  
"Why didn't you tell me?"  
Garak blinks, confused for just a second. "You never asked."  
The Regent takes Garak's chain in one hand, pulling on it, but only gently, only enough to assert his authority over his captive. "You should have told me."  
"I didn't know until it was too late."  
The Regent seems satisfied with this explanation, the truth, but continues holding the chain, waiting for Garak to elaborate.  
"I didn't know until about a month ago, something shifted and I just . . ." Garak touches one of the shells. "Don't hurt them. They've done nothing wrong."  
"You're right." The Klingon's voice is steady, hard to read. His face is just as hard to read, if not more so. "They haven't done anything wrong."  
He lets go of the chain, allows Garak to curl up to the clutch. When the Cardassian bows his head, it's a gesture of thanks and not of fear. The Klingon simply watches, studying the way Garak holds the eggs, turning them just so.  
"When will they hatch?"  
Garak hums, thinking it over. "A few months? Three maybe?"  
"You don't know?"  
"It's not like I go around fucking my captors and bearing their offspring every other week," Garak hisses.  
The Regent should strike his slave for that, should flog him until the scars across his scales reopen, pouring deep red-violet blood down Garak's back. Instead, he merely backhands the Cardassian hard enough to make his head reel with the blow. "Don't get smart, snake. You're lucky I am allowing those . . . mongrels to live."  
"You're letting them live because they're yours," Garak says. "If they'd been anyone else's you'd smash them here and now."  
He's right, of course, but The Regent doesn't want to admit that. Instead, he takes Garak by the jaw, hard enough to bruise, and growls low in his throat to let the Cardassian know just how easily the Klingon could break him. Only when Garak goes quiet, relenting silently, does the Klingon let go of him.  
"If I find out you hurt them in any way, coward, I'll walk you to the mess hall and slit your throat."  
"But of course," Garak says, settling into his makeshift nest, eyes watching the eggs. "I'd expect nothing less, Regent."

* * *

The Regent had allowed Garak to be moved to a separate bed, just for a day, while their sheets were changed, their shared quarters sanitized. Garak spent the day turning their eggs, whispering soft hopes to them. Strength. Power. Health. Honor. But there could be no honor, not when they were bastard children and hybrids and born of a Cardassian slave to The Regent.  
Still, he hoped.  
And when he was chained to The Regent's bed again, Garak found the Klingon was truly capable of empathy, providing him with the materials to nest properly.  
The Klingon came back to his quarters more often. Tonight, he came in without a word, locking the door behind him. They slept with the eggs between them, Garak waking only to turn the eggs and watch the Klingon pulls off his boots, throw off his cloak, his armour, and join him.  
"Will they be strong?"  
Garak shrugs. "Perhaps."  
"Will they be warriors?"  
"Maybe."  
The Regent touches the shells, making Garak tense, but he's careful with them. It's the only softness Garak has seen. The Regent is more than willing to stab Garak, to kill him outright for minor things.  
"They're still in their shells, Worf."  
It's an act of rebellion but Garak knows The Regent won't kill him. Beat and injure and abuse him, but not kill him. The Regent can hardly be expected to keep a nest.  
"When will they hatch?"  
"Patience," Garak says, settling in to sleep.  
He's be up in a couple hours to turn the eggs, half-awake as he does so. He finds The Regent, snoring, but with his body curled defensively around the eggs.

* * *

"Do you have names?"  
Garak hums, still half-asleep as he turns the eggs in their nest. The young ones have gotten stronger, motion fluttering beneath the rigid shells, but Garak worries about them being able to break out once the time comes.  
"Have I thought about what?" the Cardassian asks.  
"Names," The Klingon growls. "They need names."  
"Yes. I'm going to call them Mongrel, Half-breed, and Political Tool," Garak hisses.  
The Regent backhands him for that, Garak tasting blood in his mouth. He spits it at the Klingon.  
"You name them," Garak challenges, getting comfortable enough to go back to sleep. "I'm only a nest-builder and bed-warmer."  
The Regent paces next to the bed, deep in thought. Garak's more than content to rest while the Klingon makes a spot for pacing.  
"Ko’bhor," The Regent says. "It is a strong name."  
"I'll say." Garak doesn't open his eyes. "Another."  
"Mur'Kai."  
Garak hums.  
"You name one."  
Garak opens his eyes, looks up the The Regent. The Klingon is serious. Garak rolls his eyes, looking at the clutch.  
"If a boy, Mila," Garak decides. "For a girl Kelas."  
The Regent seems satisfied with that. He touches one of the eggs, tracing the curve of the shell. "Keep them warm."  
"I always do," Garak answers.  
He may be half-asleep but he can swear he can hear the way the Klingon almost smiles. Almost.

* * *

He's seen no one but The Regent since being added as a decoration to the Klingon's bed. He's kept out of sight when someone comes to clean and The Regent conducts all his business either on the bridge or in his ready room. The most work he'll do is read reports before going to sleep.  
Garak wakes to move the eggs over. The motion of turning them is so ingrained in his muscle memory, he hardly has to wake to do it.  
Their quarters are warm, warm enough that they don't really need to worry about the eggs, but Garak feels better tucking them into a nest. And the quarters are kept dark, perhaps the only thing Garak and his Klingon captor can agree on.  
But something glints in the dark, rousing Garak from his sleep. It takes a moment to process and his hand moves faster than his brain, Garak reaching out to grab the blade, hissing.  
The Regent wakes and sees the pain and terror in Garak's eyes. He sits upright, finding a knife through Garak's hand, right through the palm and up to the hilt. The Regent strikes, his fist hitting the would-be assassin's face, making the other Klingon stumble. He gets out of bed, striking over and over, fist to face until the would-be assassin's face is caved in, a mess of blood and splinters of bone, nose broken and eyes full of blood, one eye socket broken and swelling shut.  
The Regent pulls the knife from Garak's hand, driving it into the other Klingon, the slick sound of metal meeting flesh cutting through their quarters, over and over.  
The other Klingon stumbles back, trying to hold himself in, and falls over, shattering a glass coffee table. Dark blood spreads across the floor and The Regent turns, splattered with blood, and watches Garak shiver.  
He drops the knife, metal clattering on the floor, and goes to get a medic.  
The blade was coated in venom and meant for him, yet Garak took the blow.

* * *

Garak looks more tired than ever, the last aftershocks of the venom working their way through his system. He looks at The Regent and mumbles, "Whatever was in that 'medicine' was torture."  
The Regent laughs. Garak had spent the night vomiting, the medicine the medic gave him working to keep the venom from stopping his heart. It left Garak drained, pale and shivering in The Regent's arms. At one point the Klingon had to hold up the Cardassian's head to keep him from being sick on himself.  
But he lived, his hand treated and the poison removed from his system.  
And The Regent cups Garak's cheek, catches the flinch his captive tries to hide. "You saved my life."  
"And you didn't let me die," Garak points out, gently pulling away from The Regent's hand. "We are even."  
"No," The Regent says. "Not yet."  
He unlocks the shackle around Garak's ankle, giving him enough freedom. "The doors will be locked, but I think you'll stay in bed most of the time."  
Garak raises a brow ridge, enjoying his new freedom for a moment before rubbing at the raw skin around his ankle. "They stay your hand. Of course I'd stay close to them."  
The Regent nods and says, lighthearted, "Keep them warm."  
"I always do."

* * *

The secret is out now, the whole ship talking about the eggs in the nest, the Cardassian protecting them like a snake, fangs bared and ready to strike. People say the Cardassian killed the man instead of The Regent.  
Garak knows. He's seen it written in The Regent's face, heard it whispered when he listens close enough.  
The Cardassian spends his time reading softly, cuddled up to the eggs and speaking softly to them. They're almost ready to hatch, moving and even making sounds.  
He worries if they'll be strong enough to break their shells, worries if they'll suffocate.  
But he doesn't start the process, doesn't break the shells prematurely.  
He worries they're not ready, that they need more time.  
But he reads to them softly, reads them Cardassian novels and Klingon plays, giving them both halves of their heritage.  
But as the days progress and the motions within the eggs get stronger, he reads them more Klingon plays and less Cardassian novels.

* * *

"You're good at this," The Regent says, watching Garak turning the eggs.  
"Instinct," Garak answers, ensuring the nest is maintained, the eggs turned just so.  
"And yet your instincts brought you to my bed, begging for your life," The Regent says.  
Garak looks up, one hand cupping one of the eggs still. "My instincts have kept me alive, Worf."  
And even though the Cardassian has showed some disrespect by using his name so casually, The Regent can't find it in him to be cruel to Garak, not when he's been so good to their children. Not when he's saved his life. So he allows the small rebellion.  
They're quiet as The Regent goes through reports, Garak reads more mouthing the words than anything. It's almost domestic.  
But Garak makes a sharp, startled noise and The Regent stands. "The eggs?"  
"Hatching." Garak doesn't look away from the nest.  
The Regent hurries to the bed, wanting to watch, needing to greet their children.  
One of the three, the smallest and last laid, has a long split down the side, the rigid shell bulging outward. The Regent has never seen anything hatch, not birds, not snakes. This is entirely foreign.  
Garak's hand finds his, holding it tightly. There's so much anxiety in just a simple gesture and The Regent holds Garak's hand.  
"They are strong," The Regent says, more to himself than his captive.  
And they are. The runt of the clutch manages to break the side entirely, then the rounded bottom of the eggs, crawling into the nest. It's a blind thing for a few moments, simply making a high, sharp noise. The Regent thinks its frightened, but Garak scoops the runt up, smiling and holding it close to his chest, where the hatchling presses itself against him, searching for warmth. Its squeaking stops all at once when the hatchling decides it’s warm enough.  
They have The Regent's complexion, the deep, warm tones of his skin, and his forehead ridges but they have Garak's distinctive scales and midnight-black hair, his spoon-shaped ridge just before the Klingon features take over.  
"Kelas," Garak says softly and The Regent understands. Their runt is a daughter, though stronger than her brothers.  
The other two hatch slower, lazier in emerging from their shells. They're both sons, though, and The Regent can hold each in one of his hands, marvelling at their smallness. They share their sister's features, though they have more Klingon to their foreheads and more Cardassian to their complexions. Still, The Regent refuses to put them back in the nest, content to keep them close to his warm body until it's time to tuck them back into the nest for the night.

* * *

The Regent gets used to the new change. The hatchlings squeak loudly when they're hungry, when they want to be held, when they want to be warmed.  
Garak takes care of feeding them, a slow, messy process. The hatchlings need more protein to put on more weight to start their sheds, which mark their growth spurts. But Garak always seems concerned about the idea of shedding.  
When they want warmth, they seek out The Regent, pressing their small bodies against him, burrowing into his clothes to get closer, find more warmth. They're like pets, annoying and he spoils them.  
He doesn't take them too far from the nest, not yet. He worries what someone might do to the hatchlings, how easily their bones could be broken, their skin split, their bodies broken.  
Garak is capable, able to defend their nest and their hatchlings.  
It's a soothing thought when The Regent is on the bridge, assuming command and putting down rebellions across the Quadrant.

* * *

Mur'Kai starts shedding first but Kelas has the roughest time with it. Though she looks more Klingon than her brothers, Kelas gets lethargic, sleeping and refusing to eat. Garak seems relieved, content to let her rest.  
"This is normal?" The Regent asks, watching his daughter laying on her belly, her chest rising and falling so slowly.  
"She's Cardassian," Garak explains, placing a hand over her back, careful not to add friction. "This is normal for us."  
"But she looks so . . . Klingon."  
"She might look like a Klingon, but she's not entirely one of you," Garak says.  
Mur'Kai begins making his distressed squeaks and The Regent takes the scale oil Garak's had, helping him shed. And once Mur'Kai's taken care of, Ko'bhor begins crying out for attention. The Regent helps him too, stealing glances at their daughter.  
"She's not going to starve?"  
"No," Garak assures him. "She sheds like I do."  
The Regent nods, allowing their sons to climb into his lap.

* * *

Kelas' skin sheds in one large piece, like a reptile. The Regent watches as her back splits, much like her egg had, and Kelas crawls out, crying for Garak to hold her, soothe her. Her skin is fresh, shining in the dim light.  
She's a hungry thing after a shed, eating more than both her brothers combined.  
The Regent watches her eat, almost like she's starving, and smiles.

* * *

"You're leaving us."  
The Regent watches Garak stroke Mur'Kai's back, the hatchlings gathering in his lap. Kelas lifts her head, watching The Regent with a distinct intelligence.  
"It's too dangerous," The Regent says. "There's a Cardassian-Klingon colony. It should be secluded enough, safe enough."  
"And what am I supposed to do? Farm?" Garak asks. "The hatchlings are a job of their own."  
"I'm leaving you an allowance," The Regent says.  
Garak goes quiet, thinking it over. He scratches the back of Kelas' neck and she lowers her head, dozing slightly.  
"No one will bother you or the hatchlings," The Regent says. "There's plenty of people with hybrid households."  
Garak nods slowly. "But, promise me one thing."  
"Anything."  
"Our daughter will go to Cardassia. She'll study medicine."  
The Regent nods. "And our sons will inherit my house. They'll be warriors, leaders."  
Garak sighs. "Then I'll go."

* * *

The cabin is quaint and Garak keeps it warm. The hatchlings cry loudly the first couple of nights, missing their father's warmth. But they settle slowly and grow quickly.  
Garak sends letters to Cardassia. He sends reports about their hatchlings to Worf.  
Nothing comes back from Cardassia. Worf only sends promises to visit, vague mentions of pushing back a rebellion, mentions of making the Quadrant safer for the hatchlings.  
The pension is enough to feed the hatchlings. They need more and more and the boys show more Klingon behaviours. They growl at each other, fight like beasts. They're strong enough to bruise each other and Garak worries about them breaking bones. When they start talking, Kelas does not, staying quiet and out of the way of her brothers. But she's a climber, taking to heights like a bird, often finding a way on top of shelves, cabinets, hiding out of the way of her brothers' quarreling and confusing Garak. He begins to know to look for her in warm nooks up high when little Kelas disappears.  
She likes to be read to, often thrusting a PADD at Garak until he takes it and curling up in his lap when he does. She likes Cardassian novels about family. The boys prefer to be read stories of war.  
Kelas continues to shed like Garak, going lethargic and refusing food until she breaks from her skin in one piece. Her brothers shed in flakes and pieces, never slowed by their marks of growth, always playing through their sheds.  
Sometimes Garak will wake up to find Kelas staring past him, out the window, as if she knows her father is out there.  
On nights like those, Garak simply strokes her back and soothes her back to sleep.


End file.
